


the night ocean filled with glints of light

by chlorobenzene



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25574236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chlorobenzene/pseuds/chlorobenzene
Summary: "I can't have you working yourself to an early grave, sunshine," Dimitri says, voice stern even as his hand—rough and callused, the hand of a warrior and a survivor and a king—caresses Khalid's cheek with a gentleness that he has come to relearn, after the war. His eye is the bluest thing Khalid has ever seen.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 25
Kudos: 130





	the night ocean filled with glints of light

**Author's Note:**

> i'm almost a week late to the party but happy birthday claude!!

"Your Majesty," Farhan, Khalid's oldest and most trusted retainer, clasps his hands together in greeting, standing on the threshold to Khalid's study and scrunching his nose at the state of the room and his king's disheveled appearance, hunching over his desk as he writes with his sleeves rolled up to prevent ink stains. "There is something requiring your urgent attention."

"General Reza's concerns about his troop's annual budgets are _not_ urgent, Farhan, no matter how loud his yellings are this time around." General Reza has been trying to seek an audience with him for months, now, mostly to tell him that his decision to cut the military's spending will paint a target on Almyra's back and doom it for generations, and so on and so forth. He has taken to visiting the palace unprompted, in erratic intervals, as if hoping to catch Khalid off-guard. And, when that does not happen, he resorts to yelling at the guards until he's red in the face and Nader has to escort him off the premise.

Khalid has neither the time nor the energy for an old man's temper tantrum, not when there are at least two dozen agreements to be drafted and a seemingly endless list of things that needs to be done, looked over, approved. His hands have started shaking a few hours ago, tiny tremors that he has come to recognize as the way his body tries to tell him that he's been running on too little sleep and too much coffee for a little too long. Khalid puts his quill down, laying his hands flat on the desk and pushing his fingers against it to stop the shaking.

"If I may be so bold, Your Majesty, I believe it is in your best interests to attend to this urgent matter," Farhan says, and there is a shadow of a smile on his face as he says it. It's a curious thing—Farhan does not smile often, and certainly not when he is informing Khalid of a duty to attend. Khalid looks down at the parchment on his desk, his writing only barely legible nearing the end of it, and decides that maybe he _does_ want to see for himself whatever it is that managed to draw a smile out of Farhan more than he wants to finish reviewing the supplementary budget of one of Almyra's eastern provinces.

"Fine, I will see to it," he says as he stands up, trying not to wince at the sound his hips make when he does so.

"Excellent," Farhan replies, flatly, as if he expects nothing else. "I will bring you to him."

"Him?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. _Him_." There is that ghost of a smile again, a twitch at the corner of Farhan's mouth. Khalid opens his mouth to ask, but Farhan turns around and starts walking before Khalid could utter a single word.

* * *

Khalid is expecting—well, he's not sure _who_ he's expecting, exactly. He isn't scheduled for an audience with anyone until the beginning of next week, and certainly not with anyone considered important enough to pass muster with Farhan and his no-nonsense attitude on scheduling. Khalid's questions are met with an elegant shrug and a placating, _you will find out soon enough, Your Majesty_ , as Farhan takes him away from the direction of the audience chamber and further into the castle. They walk past a sitting room and then another, the feast hall and the drawing room, before rounding a corner that leads to—

_Oh._

In the middle of the palace's sprawling inner garden is the King of Faerghus.

"—Dimitri?" Khalid's feet carry him to the garden as if guided by a strong gust of wind, his cape billowing behind him. Dimitri catches him by the waist, dipping him back as he presses a smile, warm and petal-soft, on Khalid's lips. In a single, brilliant moment they are the only two people in this world gilded with flowers: Khalid, green eyes blown wide and hair mussed, and Dimitri, with his cornflower eye and the smell of the sun in his hair.

"Hello, love," Dimitri says when they are both upright. His smile has turned a little shy, as if embarrassed by his previous display of passion; Khalid stands on his tiptoe to kiss it, again, just because he can.

"You're—" Khalid starts, and immediately pauses because he's not sure where to even _start_. Dimitri's tunic is dusty and wrinkled from travel, his hair tied up with a simple blue ribbon; the sight of his bare nape makes Claude swallows thickly. The dark circles under his eyes seem lighter, here under the cloudless Almyran sky. His cheeks are deep red—from the heat of the sun or Khalid's kiss or both. "—here," is the only thing Khalid could say, in the end.

"That I am."

"But why—how—" Khalid would have been horrified at himself for sputtering if it's not for the fact that the only member of his royal court in the vicinity is Farhan, who has seen him, aged nine, cried because he accidentally ripped his pants during a wyvern-riding lesson, snot and all.

"I am taking you on a vacation," Dimitri says. There is no room for objection in his voice.

"I can't," Khalid argues, anyway. It's reflexive, at this point, from how often he says it to anyone who has tried to drag him away from his work. "There is no time—"

"Khalid," Dimitri's voice is low, his pronunciation perfect. The way his voice dips on the first syllable sends a shiver down Khalid's spine, and it's _unfair_. "You haven't replied to anyone's letters in a month. You need a break."

"I've been meaning to reply to them soon."

It's a terrible excuse, he knows. In his defense, he really is meaning to reply to everyone's letters as soon as the first draft of the amendment to the military code is finalized and sent for review. Progress for that particular piece of legislation just turns out to be much slower than Khalid would have liked.

"Your retainer told me you have been sleeping in your study for two weeks."

Khalid turns around to face said retainer with what he hopes is a close enough approximation to his father's expression when he was particularly displeased. " _Really_ , Farhan?"

Farhan's expression remains stoic. "We have been restocking our coffee beans at twice our usual rate in the past few months," he says, by way of explanation. "And your hands were shaking when I came to fetch you, Your Majesty."

Khalid curses inwardly. Dimitri was by his side for nearly the entire duration of the war—he knows what the shaking means, just as well as Khalid knows Dimitri's own tell-tale signs of fatigue. And sure enough, a small frown now creases the smooth plane of his forehead, his mouth curved slightly downward.

"I can't have you working yourself to an early grave, sunshine," Dimitri says, voice stern even as his hand—rough and callused, the hand of a warrior and a survivor and a king—caresses Khalid's cheek with a gentleness that he has come to relearn, after the war. His eye is the bluest thing Khalid has ever seen.

"It's only for one night," Dimitri is looking at him in the eyes as he takes Khalid's right hand in his, brushing his lips against the ink-stained knuckles.

"What are you going to do if I say no?" It's difficult to stay coy, like this, to pretend that he is not affected by the way Dimitri tries to undo him, valiantly, painstakingly, knuckle by knuckle.

"Hmm," Dimitri scratches his chin. "I suppose I could always carry you, if all else fails."

Dimitri _wouldn't_. Except maybe he would, judging from the glint of mischief in his eye—an expression he learned from Khalid, who is starting to regret that particular influence. He is not at all opposed to being held in Dimitri's remarkably sculpted arms, no—quite the opposite, in fact—but he would rather be spared the indignation of having the entirety of his royal court see their king bridal-carried out of the palace.

"One night only," Khalid concedes. He supposes the supplementary budget approval could wait for a day or two longer.

Dimitri beams, brighter than the reflection of the midday sun on still water, and Khalid belatedly realizes that he has never stood a chance.

* * *

They are riding west, towards the sun setting on Fodlan's Throat.

Dimitri is keeping mum about their destination, despite Khalid's best effort at trying to wheedle him into speaking. All he has gathered so far is that their destination is less than half a day trip away, even at their leisurely pace. Dimitri had refused to go at a pace faster than a light trot, on account of tiredness after his journey on horseback to Almyra, but Khalid strongly suspects that their slow pace is not for Dimitri's benefits.

And—he loathes to admit it, but there is something calming about this: the further away they are from the palace, the easier it is for him to breathe. Sunlight filters through the leaves of the cedar trees standing tall and dignified on either side of the road, their cones scattered under them. The air smells so green he can almost taste it on the tip of his tongue, the cedar trees lending it a peculiar kind of sweetness that makes them an invaluable ingredient for fragrance oil in Almyra.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Khalid takes a second longer than usual to parse the question, which Dimitri takes as a yes. He throws his head back and laughs, and affection ripples through Khalid's chest at the sound of it. Dimitri has started to smile more often, after the war, but his laughter is rare as oil of agarwood, still, and infinitely more precious. Khalid wants to bottle it, the way it reminds him of the faint warmth of burnt amber, and wears it close on his skin so that his every exhale reminds him of Dimitri.

"I can't imagine your court is happy with your nefarious plan to kidnap a foreign monarch," Khalid says, gently guiding his mount to get closer to Dimitri's own. Dimitri's tiny ponytail is mussed by the wind; he keeps tucking a few loose strands of hair behind his ears, only for it to fall over the sides of his face again after a few moments. It should not look endearing on someone who is a head taller than Khalid and built like a Faerghan fortress, and yet it is.

"I'd hardly call it _kidnapping_ , considering how eager said foreign monarch looked when he saw me," Dimitri has the most _infuriating_ smile on his lips, and Khalid is already planning half a dozen different schemes to wipe every last trace of that smugness from Dimitri's expression. Three of those schemes are going to involve _tongue_.

"Cheeky, aren't you," Khalid retorts, playfully jabbing Dimitri's side with his elbow.

Dimitri doesn't retaliate, this time. He is looking forward, to the edge of the forest where the sky is now visible, a tapestry in pale pink and purple. "We are almost there," Dimitri announces. "Can you hear it?"

Khalid can hear it—the sound of wave crashing on the shore, the shrill screeching of seagulls. He _knows_ this place, he realizes now. He has been here, before, the first time he was allowed to fly further than the vicinity of the palace, his riding instructor behind him and Nader by his side. He had flown to this place often, ever since, whenever the need to be _away_ overwhelmed him and his lungs feel too small for air.

He remembers this place in fragments, colored with the vibrancy of a child's perception: a hideout, away from the cruelty of his half-siblings and the promise of danger lurking behind every pillar of the palace; afternoons spent pretending that here is the world, _his_ world, his claim staked in the name he's written with a child's rigid handwriting on the sand.

"General Nader told me about this place," Dimitri says, answering the unasked question. "He said this is where you liked to go, as a child."

The sound of the wave is clearer now, louder. Khalid can feel his heartbeats in his throat—how long has it been, since he'd last been here? The closer they are to the shore, the clearer his memories get—he remembers now the feeling of white sand on his bare feet, the cold water lapping at his ankles. The way he could fall asleep, his wyvern curled by his side, safe in the knowledge that there is no place for anyone to hide, here, not even himself.

"I can't remember the last time I went here," Khalid says, softly, more to himself than to Dimitri. The world around them has changed, but even after everything this place still fits perfectly in its space in Khalid's memories.

The familiar smell of salt in the air, the wave lapping gently against the shoreline—they beckon him, and Khalid answers.

* * *

They leave their riding boots behind, in the small grassy clearing where the edge of the forest meets the sand. Dimitri brings his luggage with him, unwrapping it to reveal a wicker basket, distinctly Almyran in style, filled to the brim with food. The smell is enough to make Khalid's mouth water.

"Should I be jealous of the kitchen staff you charmed for this, Dima?" He asks, grinning as Dimitri blushes at the playful accusation. Dimitri still wears his heart on his sleeves, even after everything he has been through—it was a constant source of headache for Khalid at the beginning of their alliance, when every disapproval was voiced in a growl and the look of a cornered predator ready to maim, his gaze sharp as a lion's claw. He appreciates it, now, the way Dimitri's intentions are always true, his body an open book whose spine Khalid has caressed in the dark of the night so often that he has memorized the history written in every bone.

"Your kitchen staffs are very accommodating," is Dimitri's diplomatic answer. "Although I did recall them complaining about their king subsisting on coffee and flatbreads alone for days."

"I'll have you know that our coffee and flatbreads are delicacies fit for kings," Khalid retorts. He digs his heels into the sand, curling his toes. The sun is a reddish streak on the horizon—a few years ago he would have compared the sight to spilled blood, to a flame leaving destruction in its wake. Here, in this moment, all the color reminds him of is the inside of Dimitri's mouth, the inviting warmth of it.

* * *

Dimitri takes their food out of the basket without much flourish, methodically spreading them on the blanket. Skewered meat and roasted pheasant, filo pastries drenched in honey and thin cookies stamped with Almyran coat of arms. There is a glass jar filled with sugar candies cut into diamonds, which Dimitri places gingerly next to a nearly identical jar full of small, gelatinous cubes of candied rosewater dusted with sugar. Khalid's favorite foods, all of them—he makes a mental note to thank the kitchen staff, later.

As for Dimitri—Khalid takes a bite of the candied rosewater, moaning obscenely as sweetness bursts in his mouth. Dimitri freezes almost immediately, hand tightening on the neck of the tall bottle of honey-wine in his hand. Khalid can tell that he's blushing, again, without even looking at him.

"You are incorrigible," Dimitri says, hoarsely. But he doesn't look away as Khalid licks sugar dust off his fingers, smirking around the digit in his mouth. Making Dimitri blush is both the easiest game Khalid has ever played and the one with the highest return—already Dimitri is inching closer to him, wrapping one hand around his waist as the other moves to cradle the back of Khalid's neck, pulling him into an open-mouthed kiss.

This moment would make a fine painting were someone to capture it, Khalid thinks—the lion, devouring the deer. Except the deer is no prey animal, here—it bites back, just as ferocious.

Khalid sinks his teeth into Dimitri's lower lip, with just enough force behind it to send a bolt of _painpleasurepain_ down Dimitri's spine. He is rewarded by Dimitri's fingers pressing more firmly into the small of his back, a growl vibrating its way upward from Dimitri's chest. Their breathing sounds to Khalid like waves crashing on stone cliffs.

It feels like centuries have come and gone before they pull apart, their lips bruised red. Dimitri's eyepatch is askew. He primly ties it back in place, elaborate knot and all, and it's such a _Dimitri_ thing to do that Khalid starts giggling without even meaning to.

"What is it, moonlight?" Dimitri asks, after he has made sure—twice—that the eyepatch is tied properly.

"Nothing," Khalid says, even as he grins so widely his cheeks hurt. And then, a beat later: "I love you."

Dimitri's smile is so bright it burns, setting alight the affection that has lodged itself in the space between Khalid's ribs. The look in his eye is softer than the light of the moon hanging round and full above them.

"I love you," Dimitri echoes. He is the only one who could say _love_ and make it sound like a pillar for Khalid to lean on.

Khalid settles in the space between Dimitri's arms, feeling Dimitri's steady heartbeats against his back. The night sky observes them in silence; its stars seem brighter, here, away from everything.

"Tell me about the stars," Dimitri asks, and Khalid obliges. He tells Dimitri the story of a god who fell in love with a hunter and turned him into a constellation, of a bird so majestic that when it died the gods granted it a place to fly for eternity among other stars. Stories that Khalid grew up with, that he carry with him to Fodlan where the constellations bear different names.

The stars are what he thought of when he was introduced as the Riegan heir for the first time, with a name as brand new as the scratchy suit he had to wear. He discovered a newfound sense of kinship with the stars, that night—Almyra gave them one name and Fodlan gave them another, but they remain who they are, underneath it all. Looking at them, Khalid didn't feel as alone.

Dimitri's hand in his hair brings Khalid back to the present. He arches into the touch, eyelids fluttering. His thoughts stop racing, for once, and fade away until only Dimitri remains—his hand in Khalid's hair, his breathing tickling the back of Khalid's neck.

"Thank you," Khalid whispers against the jut of Dimitri's collarbone. He feels so light he could float and pluck one of the stars out of the sky, clasp it between his palms and bring it back to Dimitri as a memento.

"I should be the one thanking you," Dimitri says. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be, tonight."

Dimitri leans down to kiss him, and a star bursts into being with every slow drag of their lips, every tiny gasp.

When the sun rises they will return to being kings, but not now.

In this moment they are Khalid and Dimitri, in each other's orbit, united by the bond of their mutual gravitation, for as long as the night stretches above them.

Khalid wouldn't trade it for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> the "united by the bond of their mutual gravitation" line is lifted from herschel's writing on binary stars. who knew astronomy can be romantic? 
> 
> title is from one of rumi's poems.
> 
> as always, kudos/comments are appreciated <3


End file.
